


A Number I've Already Passed

by ellaisall



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Relationships, Bill Denbrough Doesn't, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Fix-It, M/M, Minor Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Stanley Uris Lives, The Turtle CAN Help Us (IT)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:34:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26078059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellaisall/pseuds/ellaisall
Summary: When he sees Bill in the water, several yards out, Mike isn’t surprised. Bill’s a ghost now, sure, why wouldn’t he be? Mike isn’t surprised by anything anymore. He has learned his life is doomed to be one of torment.Or, in the aftermath of Chapter Two, Eddie and Stan live. Bill doesn’t.
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon
Comments: 10
Kudos: 85





	A Number I've Already Passed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deadlight_s (scamsHan)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scamsHan/gifts).



> content warnings: alcohol, suicidal ideation
> 
> \---
> 
> a lifetime of saying, sure, why not, / i’m only on earth x number / of years, and not knowing what / to make x. sometimes i pick a number / i’ve already passed. 
> 
> Natalie Shapero, “Other Things, If Not More Urgent Things”

Mike starts his trip from California. He doesn’t bother staying for the funeral reception, content to drive in grief.

The long stretches of highway are not good for Mike’s brain. He feels himself drifting - not physically, the car continues safely - nothing else to focus on but the empty space beside him. When he was young, he imagined traveling the world alone. He wanted nothing more than all those eyes off his back, the freedom to move anonymously. Now that he’s experienced more than two decades of solitude, the idea has lost its luster.

Mike left Derry determined to cope. He’s not going back. It’s not going to change anything. 

He doesn’t drive with a destination in mind until he’s crossed most of the US. Sometimes signs are literal. This one says 50 miles to Atlanta.

Mike pulls off the road at the next stop. He gets coffee, sweeter than he likes it, cloying. He doesn’t need the caffeine, doesn’t want it, wants the punishment of overconsumption. He doesn’t dwell on that thought. He calls Stan. 

Patty answers Stan’s cell, because their relationship is like that. Mike anticipates this, considering she answered the previous call. That call. Mike thinks about Beverly’s dreams, what could have happened if Patty hadn’t answered. 

“Hello Mrs. Uris,” Mike says, his voice betraying his smile. Genuine.

“Mike,” she whines. “Please. So fucking formal.”

“Just messing with you, Pats. How are you? Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“No, no. I’m good. Not busy. Stanley’s outside, do you want me to get him for you?”

“You don’t need to. Actually, I was wondering… Would it be all right if I stopped by?”

“What? Yes! When?”

Mike looks down at his watch, more for the affect than anything, lost because this is a phone conversation. He’s allowed to be theatrical. “Later today?”

“Of course, sweetheart.”

And that’s that.

* * *

Stan is easier to be around than his other friends. Stan and Patty’s love is evident in their every word and action, but it isn’t desperate. Solid, sure. Simmering. Twenty or so years of marriage and they can dampen down their affection when they see it upsets someone.

The Losers have not yet grasped this. Mike loves them, of course he does, but reuniting with the person you’ve loved since you were a teenager makes you profoundly irritating. He missed his friends with a deep ache, and he can hardly stomach the thought of being separated again, but he can’t be around that. Not right now. 

In the weeks post-Derry, the Losers Club dealt with two divorces. It was the obvious outcome of what Mike was forced to witness in the quarry. Ben and Bev disappearing underwater for a suspiciously long time. Richie and Eddie unwilling to keep their hands to themselves, looking at each other with total fondness. Mike had remained stoic, washing blood and dirt and greywater off of his skin. He wasn’t going to cry, not even when his friends seemed to recover from their loss so quickly, laughing and joking and ever so in love. In that water, more rings were shed than tears.

Two divorces. Not three, it never would’ve been three, Mike knows that. Sitting in the Uris living room, he lets himself think about it, what might have happened if Bill had been there. The two of them, watching over the herd, exchanging proud grins. Would Mike have reached for him, grasped at his shoulder? Maybe hugged him. Bill was affectionate with friends, quick to comfort physically, moreso if there was attraction involved, so maybe… No. That train of thought is not helpful. Mike knows this. He prides himself on his ability to shut that shit down. 

There’s no point. Bill was married. Nothing would have happened. There would only be two divorces, never three. 

And Bill is dead.

Stan sits down next to him on the couch, but says nothing. He doesn’t even look at Mike. Instead, he stares straight ahead and folds his hands neatly. Trying to offer support without overstepping. 

“Hi,” Mike says. It comes out strangled. He clears his throat.

Stan bumps his knee against Mike’s. “Hey.”

Stan raises his head when his wife enters the room. Patty dangles her hand in front of him as she sits. Stan kisses it lightly, rubs his thumb over her wedding ring. 

Mike doesn’t mind it. Stan and Patty aren’t the same as his other friends, though Mike learns that they too have technically been in love since they were teenagers. They met at nineteen and married quickly. The difference, Mike supposes, is that they aren’t making up for lost time.

He knows about lost time better than anyone. All those years he spent waiting and afraid, he daydreamed. Imagined Bill saving the day. Imagined he and Bill saving the day together. If Bill had lived… Stupid. Kid stuff. Life doesn’t work out that way. 

Mike knows he won’t stay annoyed with his friends for long. The remaining Losers urged him to keep in touch, to keep them updated on the sights he sees. Beverly set up an Instagram for him. Mike promised to call, to text, to post pictures, to visit. He hasn’t, yet. But he will. Promises mean something to Mike.

Mike wonders what the Losers think is going on with him. If they even think of him at all. It wouldn’t be malicious, Mike knows that they love him, but they’re distracted. They didn’t notice when his grief was fresh, when it was most obvious. None of them did. Except Stanley.

Stan, who had shown up to the Jade late, wrists bandaged, terrified but alive. In the quarry, Stanley watched as Mike separated himself from the rest, frowned, and moved as though he was going to touch Mike’s arm. He didn’t. He brought his fist down into the water sharply, then exhaled.

“I’m so sorry,” Stan had said, like he knew.

And maybe he did.

At the funeral, Mike sat between Stan and his wife. Patty took Mike’s hand first. Stan took Mike’s other hand a few minutes later. The shine in his eyes made it unclear just who was supporting whom. Mike didn’t tell them how he feels, why this loss hits harder than if it had been anyone else. He didn’t need to.

* * *

Once evening has shifted solidly into night, Patty asks about their childhood. The three of them are drinking tea together, a jazz record playing. Patty knows a little bit about their past, enough to understand the importance of Stan returning to Derry. She got the fucked up stories before the nice ones. 

Stan and Mike share anecdotes out of order, linking events by feeling rather than time. Mike’s not sure if everything is clear, but Patty seems delighted nonetheless. 

“Richie is my favorite,” she tells them. Patty clearly loves all of their friends, but she has a particular penchant for Richie. Mike can’t wait to see what they’ll be like once they’re all together under happier circumstances. 

“How do you feel about that?” Mike laughs, turning to Stan.

“Exasperated but not surprised,” Stan rolls his eyes. 

Mike should have known that this discussion would inevitably end up in treacherous territory. He’s telling Patty about the bullshit with the hammock when it happens.

“And they had no clue they liked each other?”

Stan groans. “Oh, baby, you wouldn’t believe how frustrating it was watching the six of them making moon eyes at each other and somehow believing their feelings were unrequited. I wanted to scream. I did scream, sometimes.”

Mike exhales in a way he hopes is subtle. “Six,” he mutters.

Stan seems to notice what he said. “Sorry, Mike, I.”

“No, it’s okay,” Mike says, staring at the carpet. “I didn’t, uh. Know if anyone knew how I felt.”

Stan presses his lips together. Nods. “I’m observant.”

Mike wants to ask. He’s not going to ask. He isn’t sure it’s a good idea to keep thinking about Bill, much less talk about him like this. He’s trying to consciously move on, move forward. 

Patty hums. “Mike.”

Mike looks up at her, still hunched over.

“Tell me about Bill,” she continues.

And then the floodgates open.

* * *

Mike can’t put a word to the way he feels about Bill. Well, he could, but even in his own head he tries to avoid melodrama. Bill had moved away during high school, promising he wouldn’t forget, he wouldn’t be like the others. But he did forget, like Mike knew he would. So Mike waited. His whole life was waiting, counting down to a vague but certain horror. He longed to see all of his friends again - Beverly, Richie, Eddie, Stanley, Ben… but Bill most of all. Mike knew why, even before he had the language to express it.

He hoped… He didn’t know what he hoped would happen. Bill’s fame grew steadily over the years - his book sales reaching astronomical figures, film adaptations verified blockbusters - making it easy enough for Mike to keep up with his life. He was invested in all of the Losers’ careers, of course, but it wasn’t the same. Beverly’s engagement hitting the tabloids only upsets Mike in retrospect. Bill’s wedding photos hurt. 

But it had been years since Bill had married Audra, and Mike had accepted it. He kept his genuine hopes realistic, platonic. He wanted his friend back. He wanted to lean on someone else, get last minute guidance from their lionhearted leader. 

His subconscious didn’t get the message. Sometimes Bill starred in his daydreams. So sue him.

Mike thought about him at the funeral. It’s inappropriate, he knew, to fantasize about a widow’s late husband as she gives his eulogy. Maybe worse to feel righteous indignation, an envious anger toward her. Audra got so much time with him. She didn’t even know him.

Mike wouldn’t want to be her, however. He knows their explanation to her was unsatisfying. How do you tell someone that their spouse has died, their body unretrievable, but you can’t share the circumstances? Mike tried his best. Ben had offered to call Audra in Mike’s stead, but he knew it had to be him. It was Mike’s obligation. It’s his fault that Bill’s dead, is the thing. If everything had gone differently, if he had done things differently, done things _better_ , Bill would still be here. 

Besides, with Bill gone, Mike was their leader.

* * *

“He was… strong. Curious. Kind. Self-sacrificing, if you’ll pardon my bluntness,” Mike replies.

“The first time we fought It,” Stan fiddles with his ring. “Bill was going to let It kill him. It offered to let the rest of us go free in exchange for Bill. We would never agree to that, obviously, but he. He was willing. He was always willing to sacrifice himself for his friends.”

“He got what he wanted, in the end,” Mike shrugs. 

Patty watches him. Her mouth is parted, not quite forming words. She plays with her ring. A nervous habit she shares.

“I don’t know if this will help or hurt more,” Stan leads. Mike motions for him to continue. “Bill loved you too. He never told me, but. I know it with the same certainty that I knew Beverly loved Ben and Eddie loved Richie. Didn’t need to say it.”

Mike pauses. Swallows. “Hurt.”

“I’m so sorry,” Stan says, shoulders drooping.

It’s okay, Mike wants to say. He’s too numb to internalize what Stan said. It doesn’t make a difference. He carries with him an emptiness he doesn’t deserve to feel. 

* * *

Mike isn’t sure how long is appropriate for him to stay. They would never kick him out, but Stan and Patty have lives to live, and Mike never wants to intrude. He leaves after five days. He hugs Patty goodbye. Stan has never been one for physical affection, platonic that is, but even he takes a moment to hug Mike. They don’t make him promise to keep in contact. He’s grateful.

Mike goes to Florida, then, the logical next step in his transcontinental tour. Exactly fifty-eight minutes on the beach, and he considers settling. He doesn’t have a home anymore, fleeing Derry with possessions scant enough to fill two suitcases. He knows that he could find sand elsewhere, heat somewhere not so perpetually muggy. But Florida feels right, for now at least. A goal accomplished. 

He doesn’t intend to isolate himself.

* * *

What is so horrific about the night? Mike’s been groomed to fear darkness, though he confronted pure evil in the form of light. The dark… Haunted houses, back alleys, sewers. Watch your back.

The previously unremarkable day he sees Bill out of the corner of his eye, the sky is overcast. Not really dark, not foreboding, no oncoming storms, but not bright either. An even lighting, casting no shadows. Mike is walking barefoot just off the edge of the water, parallel to the ocean. He feels his soles beginning to cover in grit.

It’s midday, two o’clock maybe, Mike rarely wears a watch anymore, but the beach is mostly empty. The flat grey sky signals a bad tanning day to the tourists. The water is just a bit too cool, even constant contact isn’t enough to acclimate.

When he sees Bill in the water, several yards out, Mike isn’t surprised. Bill’s a ghost now, sure, why wouldn’t he be? Mike isn’t surprised by anything anymore. He has learned his life is doomed to be one of torment.

Mike decides to ignore what he sees. He continues walking, forcing his eyes to look ahead.

In a moment of weakness, Mike glances to his left. Bill is closer now.

Okay.

Mike knows it’s him. Only his head and the very top of his shoulders are visible, a testament to his diminutive stature. He is clearly incorporeal, the gentle waves passing through his body unmarred. He would’ve been difficult to spot, Mike thinks, if the lighting were different.

Mike sighs, then turns to face the ocean. He looks directly at Bill and yes, that’s definitely him, Mike would know that face anywhere. Mike gives a slight wave in acknowledgement. Bill seems startled by this development. His eyebrows jump, and he evaporates. Mike rolls his eyes and turns, continuing his walk.

He’s been in conversations with The Turtle for weeks now.

No one has ever assumed Mike had healthy coping methods. He’s fucking weird, he knows it, and he’s willing to lean into it. He lasted about a month processing his grief the way people should: reflecting, crying when necessary, trying to find new purpose in life. It’s just really fucking hard to accept all the bullshit about moving on after the death of a loved one when you know even a fraction of what’s really going on in the universe. Mike could only think about “Nobody in Derry ever really dies” so many times before he snapped.

Mike’s lovesick grief combined with his proclivity for the occult? Really, it would’ve been more surprising if he hadn’t dipped his toes into necromancy.

He could call it prayer, if he wanted to. Or cosmic therapy. He doesn’t send vague questions and desires out into the ether, no. He asks Maturin very targeted questions.

“What the fuck was that?” Mike mutters, wincing as he crunches a jagged shell under his heel. He doesn’t need to be loud to be heard.

_Your man._

Mike glares. He knows Maturin’s phrasing is intentional, embarrassingly sentimental. “I saw,” Mike says. “Why did he react like that?”

_Sometimes we see that which desires to remain unseen._

“He thought he was invisible,” Mike nods.

_He is easily overwhelmed._

The next time he sees Bill is in his apartment at twilight. He’s once again in his peripheral, significantly closer, could close the distance in a few strides. Mike intends to ignore him again. Maturin has assured him that Bill can communicate with him if he wants to. Mike won’t be the first one to speak. He won’t even look at him until Bill says something.

Mike caves. “I can see you,” he says.

Bill startles. So jumpy. He rakes a hand through his hair, then sniffs. “Hi Mikey,” he says. His voice is an echo, distant and formless, but clear enough, the way Mike’s thoughts sometimes sound.

Mike knows he isn’t imagining this. “Hi, Bill. You don’t have to keep hiding, you know.”

Bill’s hand goes to his own collarbone and he shrugs. “I don’t want to bother you.”

“You don’t bother me,” Mike says, pivoting his body to face Bill. He’s see-through but distinct. “It’s good to see you.”

Mike sweeps his eyes over him. He looks the same. Eyes the same clear blue. Handsome. Uninjured.

“Would it freak you out if I told you I’ve been watching you?” Bill bites his thumb. Cute.

Mike tries something. “Depends what you saw.”

Bill smirks, looks at his feet. “Nothing unseemly.”

“Good to know.” Would you like to?

Flirting with him feels obscene. But Bill’s smile has reached his eyes now.

“How are you?”

“I’m okay.” Better, now that you’re here. 

Bill comes closer. He reaches out his hand. Mike doesn’t try to touch him, not certain that it’s possible. “If only I could stay with you,” Bill says.

Mike blinks. He shakes his head, incredulous, and stands. “I- Fuck. Bill, you can, you know that, right? We can bring you back to life. I can summon Maturin right now and-”

“No,” Bill interrupts.

“What?” Mike drops his hands. 

“I’m not- Mike. I can’t come back to life.” They make eye contact.

Mike tilts his head. “You… can. I’m telling you that you can.”

“No,” Bill crosses his arms. “I know that I can. I’m saying I won’t.”

“You just said that you wished you could stay? And now you don’t want to.”

“You don’t understand,” Bill whispers, and disappears.

* * *

A week into Bill’s haunting, Maturin drops a bomb.

_The power is already within you._

“What does that mean?” Mike says, scrubbing harshly at his left eye. He cries easily. He hates it. Frustration makes it worse, and this situation with Bill is incredibly frustrating.

_You no longer need my help._

“Rephrasing is not an answer. “

_You have to convince him._

Convince Bill, he means, that he is worthy of coming back to life.

Mike isn’t the most convincing. He knows that. He would love some outside assistance, but he can’t tell anyone about Bill. Not even the other Losers. They’ll think he’s crazy. Mike is _not_ crazy. But he doesn’t know what else to do.

“You think you deserved to die,” Mike says the instant Bill reappears. Mike was in the middle of slicing an apple. He moves to his dining table, sits, places the bowl between him and Bill as though Bill could join him.

“I think I was destined to,” Bill responds quietly.

“That’s bullshit.”

“Is it?” Bill takes the spot across from Mike. He can’t sit in the chair, they’ve learned that he is not able to interact with the environment in that way, but it makes these chats more comfortable. His movement does not make a sound. “Out of everyone, I’d expect you to understand.”

Mike huffs. “You- look. There was no grand reason for you to sacrifice yourself.”

Bill shakes his head. “I protected you.”

And he did.

* * *

Memory. It’s a funny thing.

So much of the final fight against It is a blur to Mike, his recollection warped by concurrent grief, confusion, and yes, fear. He’s reminisced with his friends so many times that he can’t be sure which memories are his own, which he has fabricated from perspectives he couldn’t have had. But he’ll forever remember _that_ moment with a devastating clarity.

Mike had lied to his friends. A lie of omission, a lie bolstered by sincere belief. It didn’t matter. They were fucked, and it was his fault.

Pennywise was looming over him, impossibly tall. His friends were screaming for him to move back. Bill’s voice stuck out. “Mikey! You gotta move, Mikey!”

Mike had resigned himself to dying. He apologized repeatedly, hoping… Hoping what? That without him, they’d figure it out? They’d escape this place, escape Derry, like he’d never get to? He would reflect on the efficacy of his actions later. In the moment, he merely felt that this was his deserved punishment. 

It taunted him. Its hand multiplied, then transformed into a claw. Again, resigned, Mike watched the descent of the claw toward him. His life didn’t flash before his eyes as he shut them. For the best, probably. Very little worth reliving.

Mike heard Bill curse. Then he felt a push, forceful enough to knock him to the hard ground. 

Bill had darted over to Mike, pushing him a few feet to the left, to safety. Mike opened his eyes, moderate pain barely registering. He assessed the scene in front of him. The massive claw, skewered through Bill’s torso, pinned him to the ground. Bev was only inches away from being hit. Someone screamed.

Mike assumed that his own expression mirrored Bill’s: concerned eyes, determined mouth. It was like Bill didn’t notice his own injury. Mike pushed himself up, no plan but to reach him. Bill shook his head at him. Said “GO!” Maybe whispered, maybe mouthed. The sound of Bill’s voice didn’t reach Mike all the same. Then he was gone.

None of them had a moment to mourn him. His death bought them an extra second to run.

* * *

“Do you expect me to thank you for that?” Mike picks at one of the apple slices. He takes it and rips at the skin with the nail of his middle finger.

Bill watches him. He drifts to another part of the room. Mike thinks he looks at something through the window. It’s not an impressive view. Bill whispers something.

“What?” Mike says flatly.

Bill sighs and turns to face him. “You aren’t moving on,” he repeats.

Mike drops the fruit from his hand. Juice sticks to his fingers. He rubs at the tacky feeling as he figures out how to respond. 

He goes with, “You don’t know that.” A non-answer.

Bill tilts his head. “You’re stagnating.”

“I can’t exactly move on with you hanging around.”

He shouldn’t have said that.

Silence, a few seconds too long. Bill blinks. “I guess you’re right.”

He takes this to mean that he should disappear. That Mike wants him to disappear. Mike learns this because at that moment, Bill does disappear, and for the following month it’s impossible to nail him down.

* * *

How concerning is it to drink alone when you do everything alone?

Mike has never thought of himself as having a problem. Still, he wants to apologize for his behavior when Bill finds him drinking wine straight from the bottle. 

The sight is enough to make Bill pause. He quirks an eyebrow.

“Fewer dishes,” Mike explains.

“Sure,” Bill crosses his arms. “I’ll, I’ll just uh-”

“Wait.”

They make eye contact. It burns. Mike swallows and fiddles with his hands.

“You want me to stay?” Bill says quietly.

“You know what I want.” His tone is confusing, even to himself. Bill blessedly ignores the implications.

He sighs and drops his arms. “You don’t have to feel guilty, Mike,” he says. “I would do it again.”

“Clearly,” Mike says, voice thick. He takes another swig.

“It’s what had to happen.”

“Right. Destiny. Did you ever think maybe I was the one supposed to die?” Mike says. This is counterproductive, he knows this, but this is the longest conversation they’ve had in weeks and the thought begs to be shared. “Maybe you interfered with _my_ destiny.”

“No,” Bill asserts, visibly frustrated. “There was no reason for you to die.”

“You see how I feel.”

“It isn’t the same thing, Mikey.”

So affectionate, that name Bill uses for him. He’s _Mikey_ , even when Bill was furious, when it was prefaced with a “FUCK YOU,” right before the end. Bill’s end. Not Mike’s.

“And why not?”

“If I hadn’t dragged you into this, you would’ve lived a real life,” Bill says, like it’s obvious. “You would’ve gotten out of Derry years ago. You could’ve, fuck, you could’ve done whatever you wanted. Traveled. Had a family. Whatever you wanted.”

He still blames himself, then.

“It was my choice to stay.” It was. Mike knows he could have left. He could have chosen to forget, to doom them all. Though he couldn’t have comprehended just how long twenty-seven years would feel when he made the choice, he doesn’t regret it.

“Don’t you resent us?” Bill steps closer.

“I don’t. I can’t,” Mike continues, noting the disbelief on Bill’s face.

“Why?”

“It’s what had to happen.”

Aspiring martyrs, both of them.

* * *

Bill hangs around a lot more after that. It’s out of pity, Mike thinks. He’s somehow isolated himself even more than he had in Derry. At least there, the regular library patrons knew his name. He hasn’t made the effort to meet new people here, with nothing to compel him to leave his home other than his own cabin fever. He goes days without speaking to another human being, even more if you don’t count the deceased. Realistically, he could die without anyone noticing for a long time. Maybe Mike has died and he has yet to notice. 

The Losers reach out, sometimes. Mike has to scramble to come up with stories to share, but he likes hearing about their lives. 

Mike doesn’t have a job. Doesn’t need one. Though he truly doesn’t resent his friends for getting out of their hometown and becoming unusually successful in their careers, he doesn’t reject the guilt money they’ve been wiring him. Sometimes he feels like he should. He’s frugal, he would never spend it wildly, but it has been convenient. 

“You don’t want to work?” Bill asks at the close of the fourth day in a row that Mike has not left his home. “Just to have something to do?”

Mike shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to do.”

“Figured you would have made lots of plans.”

“I didn’t exactly think I would make it this far.”

Bill hums thoughtfully. “Well. You have the rest of your life. I’d like to see you use it.”

“I have hobbies.” Organizing seashell fragments by geometric shape. Counting how many seconds the stoplight across the street stays red. Floating in the ocean at night.

“Sure.”

“I might start journaling,” Mike offers. Because waves of you keep crashing into me.

Bill smiles. “That would be good. Creative. What about… I’m sure you’re lonely.”

Mike waits a beat, drums his fingers on his thighs. “You want to see our friends.”

“This isn’t about me,” Bill shakes his head.

Mike repeats himself. 

“Well, I… Yes. Sort of. I don’t want to interfere.” 

“Do you want me to tell them about you?” Mike already knows his answer.

“Absolutely not.”

Mike smiles at him. Tight, frustrated. 

* * *

“Bill,” he says around midnight, an off-white candle flickering between them. He’s been scribbling in a composition book for twenty minutes or so, Bill watching him. “You’re a writer.”

“I was.” His insistence on past tense makes Mike’s chest ache.

“Would you say you wrote yourself a good ending?”

Bill takes a moment, tilting his head and biting his lip before he responds. “You’re making fun of me.”

“I am,” Mike nods. “Sorry. I always liked your books, honestly.”

“You would,” Bill hides a smile. “You probably knew what I was writing about more than I did.”

Mike read the reviews. He wasn’t the only person to notice Bill’s fixation on strained family relationships, childhood trauma. He shrugs. “To a certain extent.”

“I wrote about you a lot.”

“Did you?” Mike doesn’t know where this is going.

Bill nods. “Looking back on it. Not any particular character. You were… the warmth. Every good thing reminds me of you.”

Mike blinks. Then he repeats his initial question.

“I think,” Bill says, “I had a fair ending.”

Mike wants to scream. Nothing about this situation was fair. Instead, he says, “Passive.”

“You caught me.”

“You’re satisfied with how your life turned out.”

“I think my death serves as appropriate narrative closure.”

“You’re so fucking stubborn,” Mike says, as though he hates it. As though he isn’t enchanted by the confidence Bill has always had in his own ideas. 

What’s Mike’s plan? He has no plan. 

Bill’s face is unreadable. “What about you?”

“Me?”

“Are you satisfied with being alone again?”

“You want me to move on from losing you, but I can’t.” Honest. Vulnerable. Embarrassing.

“My fault,” Bill says, seemingly to himself. 

“This wasn’t the point of this conversation,” Mike says, louder. Maybe he does have a plan. “I’ve been thinking- thinking about ghosts, and unfinished business. Why you’re here.”

Bill considers this. “I don’t know why I’m here.”

“I think you’re wrong.”

Bill frowns. Mike interrupts before he says a word. “I’m sure you don’t know why, that’s not what I’m saying. I think you’re wrong about… narrative closure, as you put it.”

“Go ahead,” Bill motions.

“What would you do? If you had lived.”

“I’ve never th-thought about it.”

Nervous.

“Never?” Mike challenges.

Bill ducks his head. Mike assumes he doesn’t have blood running through his incorporeal form, so clearly Mike is imagining that blush.

“Uh. Well. Another book, probably. A divorce.”

Three divorces.

Mike says this aloud, apparently, since Bill makes a face. “What?”

“Oh,” Mike shakes his head to clear it. “Um. That would be three Losers getting divorced, then.”

Bill exhales. “Shit. Who?”

“Beverly and Eddie.”

Bill nods and floats to another part of the room, like he’s pacing. “How are they? Everyone.”

“You don’t know?”

“I only know what you’ve told me.”

Mike wasn’t sure if Bill was visiting the others during the times he disappeared. Or if he had some other way of knowing. Mike has asked very few questions. 

“They’re… happy. In love. Excited for the future.”

“What about you?” Bill is close now, patently watching his face. 

Mike meets his eyes. “One of those,” he says carefully.

Bill, the writer, can’t read subtlety for shit.

* * *

“He doesn’t understand,” Mike tells Maturin. It’s a Tuesday afternoon and the sun is a spotlight.

_You haven’t explained._

And he hasn’t.

“I can’t tell him.” Mike doesn’t know what to say. 

He feels Maturin’s amusement. Calm, gentle. _Consider why he is bound to you._

And isn’t that something. 

* * *

He waits for Bill to return.

“I haven’t told you everything,” Mike says. “I’m sorry.”

Bill startles, like he wasn’t expecting Mike to speak. “What do you mean?”

“I know why you’re back. Why you’re here.”

Bill nods. “I do too.”

“You knew?” Mike rips at his nail, avoiding Bill’s eyes.

“Not the whole time. I learned very recently.”

“How?”

“Maturin snitched.”

Mike groans.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Bill crouches, putting himself at Mike’s eye level. “I thought it was my fault. That I had manifested myself. That I was burdening you.”

“You aren’t a burden.”

“So you say.” He waits a beat and then, “Mikey, were you going to tell me something?”

Mike lets out a shallow breath. “You should let me bring you back.”

“Because.”

“Because you deserve more time. Because you should want to. Because you do want to.” Because I want you.

“It’s not about what I want.”

He can’t read Bill’s tone. “Tell me what you want,” he says.

“Honesty. From both of us.” Bill looks at his own hands, clenches them, straightens out his fingers. Mike is fixated.

“What are you keeping from me?” Mike asks.

“Unfinished business. My last thoughts,” Bill shivers. He closes his eyes and continues. “ _I hope Mike isn’t watching. I hope he knows I love him._ ”

Mike’s thawing. “I didn’t see it.”

“Good,” Bill nods his head, floats to another part of the room. “I hate seeing you like this. I want you to be happy, Mike, I don’t want to be trauma for you. I know I’m holding you back. You can- you can reach your potential without me, you don’t _need me_ , you don’t fucking exist just in relation to other people. Definitely not me.”

Mike isn’t looking at him. “Can I be honest now?”

“Please.”

“I didn’t know if it would work. This ritual, it’s meant to connect you to your true love. Nothing about bringing someone back from the dead. It was the best I could do without having your body. I had to fight a god for you, convince Maturin that he owed us. Now you exist in relation to me. How do you feel about that?”

Bill is staring. “You didn’t say it.”

“You need to hear it?” Mike shakes his head. “I love you. _I want you._ Let me be selfish and have you. Please.”

Bill takes a step forward. The floor creaks.

They lock eyes. Mike stands, unsure if he should go to him, or let Bill cross the room. Bill doesn’t hesitate. He practically flings himself at Mike. Bill grabs at Mike’s neck, brings their foreheads together. 

“What are you doing?” Mike asks.

“Being selfish. Loving you back.”

All Mike can see are those eyes. “Kiss me.”

Bill kisses him with all the weight of the promise he’s made. Mike gasps into it, expectant but not prepared. Their mouths move like their hands do: grasping, holding on. They linger. They pull back but don’t go far, content to breathe each other’s air until they press forward once more. 

Mike feels for Bill’s pulse. Bill taps his finger against Mike’s, counting. 

The physicality of them. Two hearts beating. 

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on twitter @ellaisall


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